


Love's Labours

by flashofthefuse



Category: Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, MFMMwhumptober2019
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-09
Updated: 2019-10-09
Packaged: 2020-11-28 10:40:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,087
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20965184
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flashofthefuse/pseuds/flashofthefuse
Summary: What would happen if Jack decided Phryne really was too much trouble?





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I impulsively chose a prompt from the MFMM Whumptober list and then struggled through many drafts of whatever this turned out to be. My prompt was ISOLATION.

Detective Inspector Jack Robinson is not a man to run from danger. It is, at times, the nature of the job to face it head-on but it is also the nature of the man.

I would never call Jack pusillanimous. I wouldn’t call him reckless either. Whenever possible, Jack prefers to carefully assess a situation and select the safest path forward before acting.

That is how I know that despite his very real temptation to turn into the darkened alley and follow the shadowy figures as they melt through the door midway down, he won’t.

Misery loves company, and tonight Jack craves the noisy atmosphere and anonymous companionship inside that clandestine alley establishment even more than he craves the illicit beverages on offer within.

But he can’t afford to be recognized in such a place and his head isn’t wrecked to that level of self-destruction. Not yet anyway.

His sense of responsibility—his shift is not over—and a strong moral compass, keep him on the right path. That, and the bottle in his bottom desk drawer.

He makes it to the station by rote memory, tells the desk to hold his calls, and tries to concentrate on his paperwork.

Later, the papers pushed aside and forgotten, Jack counts the rings as the phone on his desk jangles. _Five, six, seven_. After the eighth it mercifully quiets.

He exhales with relief and leans back in his chair. He is well and truly off duty now. For the first time in longer than he can remember.

He is also deep in his cups but it is an ineffective antiseptic against the festering wound. Still, he adds a splash more to his glass—and then another for good measure and returns to his wallowing.

The phone rings again. A stubborn demand for his attention.

It has to be her. Who else would be able to charm the constable on the desk into ringing through against explicit instructions?

Again, Jack ignores it but this time it doesn’t stop. _Eight, nine, ten _and on, until he fears the constable at the front will be drawn from his station to check on his commanding officer’s well-being.

Jack reaches out his hand, already practicing the line in his most put upon voice: _“It’s late, Miss Fisher. I’m afraid whatever it is will have to wait.”_

But even if he manages to speak without slurring—a tall order at this point—she will hear everything behind his words. She will hear the loss of mooring and the self-pity. He can’t risk it.

As impulsively as he’d picked it up, he drops the receiver back onto the cradle, severing the connection. For a brief moment his muddled brain feels a sense of smug satisfaction but all too soon he realizes his mistake. 

He swears under his breath and checks his watch.

Factoring in her usual disregard for speed limits, and the relatively uninhabited streets at this hour, he figures he has only minutes before she bursts through his office door. The thought is momentarily sobering.

He considers making a break for it but is in no shape to drive and having her come upon him as he half-stumbles home on foot is out of the question.

He could issue another order to the desk not to let anyone back but, considering how well his first order regarding phone calls has been obeyed, he is not optimistic.

Finally, he considers the lock on his office door but that seems beyond cowardly and, let’s face it, will do little to deter her.

Jack pours the rest of the liquid into his glass, tosses the empty bottle into the bin and, after a fortifying swig, places the drink on the floor behind his desk.

Even in his current state he knows these attempts at obfuscation will prove as ineffective as they are pathetic but he isn’t currently capable of accessing the synopsis required for anything more creative.

It’s laughable. _He’s_ laughable. So much so that he does, in fact, laugh out loud. Albeit briefly and without joy.

He’s not sure how long he sits there running clammy hands through his hair and nervously awaiting her arrival but soon enough she is swimming in his vision across the desk.

She talks in her usual rapid fire cadence and he struggles to keep up. Something about wheel nuts and evidence and someone wanting her friend Gerty dead.

Murder. Their usual stomping ground.

At least this is safe territory.But she’s not a fool and she has seen all day that something is off. Before she can dig too deeply he forces her from the office and returns to licking his wounds.

Eventually, he tells her of the garbled message and hints at the damage it inflicted but it is several more days before he can bring himself to explain the whole of it to her.

_“When I thought it was you in that wreckage…I found it unbearable.”_

She takes his news much as he expects. He knows her well and has seen enough of her interactions with other men to know she does not welcome attachments that might clip her wings.

It is only when it becomes clear that he is not asking her to return his feelings, or even consider them, that she surprises him. She asks him not to give up on her and what they do best. ‘_Us, together,’_ she says, but he even as he swallows the knot in his throat and acknowledges her request, he is already closing the door behind him.

* * *

The last time Jack’s soul tore open he retreated into his work but this time hiding there is not an option. His work and Miss Fisher have become too entangled and soon enough it brings them together once again.

What follows is difficult to witness. As capable as these two are in most things, each of them is as bad as the other when it comes to matters of the heart.

He is stubborn. She impulsive. Neither wants to give an inch for fear the other will take a mile. And they both try too hard to convince themselves that the thing they _really_ want is the thing they had before the beast escaped its bonds.

(For that is how Jack thinks of it. As a horrible beast, breaking free of its cage and tearing at old injuries barely healed.)

Jack knows, in his more rational moments, that trying to avoid her is ridiculous. It is counterproductive to attempt running a parallel investigation rather than a collaborative one. She is as insightful as ever and she is right here!

But that is the problem. She is right here, around every corner, and his wound is too fresh. Each time he lays eyes on her it bleeds anew.

And it makes Jack resentful.

He has solved cases without her before and he can again. Perhaps not as quickly or with as much panache (and certainly in a much less diverting manner) but successfully, nonetheless.

And yet, they are good together. He cannot deny it. At times they are as in step as they’ve ever been. He gets the same thrill from the melding of their minds as they put the puzzle together. The same rush of pride watching her run circles around those that would underestimate her.

But, as much as he might enjoy having her around, it’s making it next to impossible to repair his damaged defenses. How can he hope to rebuild his hedgerows with her trampling his carefully laid seeds and ripping up the tender shoots?

When he finds himself back in her parlour to celebrate the end of a successful case—something that’s become a tradition for them—he knows what he has to do.

She is still clever. Still brave. Still infuriating, lovely, reckless, and free. She is everything she has ever been and there is nothing about her he would see changed. And he knows that as long as he remains in her proximity the wound will not heal and the beast will not be caged.

She’s watching him warily. “What kind of partners are we from hereon in, Jack?” She asks. “What’s our safe distance? Two steps behind, two steps in front? Perhaps a dosido?”

He looks down at his glass, ashamed at his lack of courage.

“I can’t do this anymore, Phryne.”

She blinks. Confused by his frank answer to her cryptic and teasing inquiry. This is not how they communicate.

“What do you mean?”

“I’ve tried, but it won’t work. I can’t do this anymore.”

“You can do it! You have! We may have had a few stumbles, Jack, but we’ve hardly missed a step.”

“I disagree. I feel as though I’ve two left feet. I can’t keep up.”

“I’m sure with a little encouragement you’ll learn to stay in step,” she says, smiling slyly. “I don’t mind the odd tread upon toe.”

Would it have made a difference if they had chosen to speak plainly rather than retreating to metaphor again? I don’t know. Maybe they weren’t ready for this. The timing was off. Perhaps it was always going to be. At least her line gets a rueful smile. But he shakes his head.

“You don’t really need me,” he says. “You’re perfectly capable in your own right.”

“Well, thank you very much, Inspector, but I happen to think we are better together. Besides, what I need and what I want are not the same thing.”

That reaches him. Not her words, so much, but her eyes as she says them.

In that moment there is a strong temptation to give himself over to the beast and be eaten whole but he can’t see what comes after that. Once he has been consumed and nothing remains of him but a bittersweet taste on the tongue—what then?

He remembers that garbled message and the blackness that followed and he knows that there is only one way this ends. He could give in to her now and take what time he gets but he eventually, probably sooner rather than later, he will lose her.And it will be unbearable.

Jack is hit by a wave of nausea and the room swims before his eyes. He needs to get out of here. He’s finding it hard to breathe.

“No one gets what they want all the time. Not even you, Miss Fisher.” He sets down his glass. “Thank you for the drink. I really am sorry.”

She makes no reply as he passes her by on his way from the room. He places his hat on his head and pauses, glancing back at her for one last look.

She doesn’t turn around and her voice is brittle as she says: “You’re a coward, Jack Robinson.”

“Yes,” he agrees quietly.

This is cowardice. But it is also pragmatism. It is survival.

* * *

They still cross paths now and then. She is as open and gracious as ever but, while he is polite, he is closed to her, and she doesn’t go where uninvited. She doesn’t stray from the path he has laid. She doesn’t disturb the tender seeds he has sowed. 

The roots grow deep in the earth and vines reach high into the sky, arcing and tangling together until the beast he’s trapped inside grows too malnourished to do any more damage.

The wound in his chest heals over too, as all but the worst of wounds do, but it retains a tiny piece of shrapnel. This isn’t the first scrap Jack has had to learn to live with, but it will be the last. Of that he is sure.

He still has the job that has always been his refuge and retreats into it once more. He never again comes close to finding a partner he would so unflinchingly trust with his life and sometimes wonders, in weaker moments, if he should have also trusted her with his heart.

When he is offered an opportunity for promotion that will take him off the streets, and away from the station she still haunts, he takes it. (Though he tells himself it is simply the natural progression of things and that she plays no role in his decision.)

He is highly respected but not necessarily liked. His colleagues find him dour and intimidating. They never hear him laugh.

Brilliant, but cold, is the general consensus. He is a man one would be lucky to learn from but not one you’d want to have a drink with. No one is surprised to learn he lives alone.

The years pass and eventually his work is done and Jack sits at home with no one to consult but the books on his shelf.

If once in awhile that bit of shrapnel flares angrily in his chest, it is nothing he can’t endure. It is an old wound, nearly forgotten, and nowhere near as lethal as when first inflicted. And it solidifies in his mind that the decision he made all those years ago was the right one.

He may have lived a solitary life but he has lived it well enough. He has served others and made his corner of the world a little safer, a little better.

And he has not been unhappy.

* * *

I know this is not what you were hoping for Jack. It is not what I wanted either.

I offered him so much more but he rejected my offering and I cannot make someone accept me. That is something they must choose for themselves.

Jack made his choice and I’d gladly leave his sad tale here but I’m afraid it is not yet over.

You see, today Jack received the news, and the old wound tears open bringing him to his knees.

I could have told him this would happen. It doesn’t matter how carefully or deeply he buried it, it was always still there.

He didn’t save himself all those years ago. He only postponed the inevitable. And what he missed out on in those intervening years is staggering to consider.

Jack stumbles to his feet and lurches to his study. With shaking hands he draws out the photograph tucked deep inside his desk. He stares at the raven haired beauty, her fingers encircling her eyes as she mugs for the camera until his vision blurs.

Jack falls back in his chair and closes his eyes. The pain is unbearable but he doesn’t even try to stop it. There is no point anymore. The beast is free but it is weak from a lifetime of neglect. There is not enough left of it to sustain Jack.

As the photograph slips from his fingers and flutters to the floor, he has one last thought: 

‘_If I had it to do again—if I could go back to that moment—this time I would dance with her_.’


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jack gets a second chance.

Jack blinks. He is confused by his surroundings. He can’t shake the feeling that he shouldn’t be here.

He knows he’s not drunk, he’s barely touched the drink in his hand, but the room shimmers at the edge of his vision and he feels somehow insubstantial.

He chalks it up to nerves. These little celebrations in her parlour have become something of a tradition at the end of a case but this has not been a typical case for them. He knows that everything about thier partnership that made him better is still there, but it is all overshadowed by an unwelcome truth.

She is clever. She is brave, infuriating, lovely, reckless and free. She is everything she has ever been and there is nothing about her he would see changed. And as long as he remains in her proximity the wound will not heal.

“What kind of partners are we from hereon in, Jack?” she asks. “What’s our safe distance? Two steps behind, two steps in front? Perhaps a dosido?”

Jack is hit by a nauseating wave of Deja vu. But, more than just the vague sensation that he has lived this moment before, there is a tingling starting at the base of his spine.

He’s felt this before. First in France during the war and then later, in the line of duty, and he has learned to trust its warning. _‘Think twice,’ _it cautions. _‘Your very life may depend on it.’_

Jack pauses. He looks down into his glass giving himself a moment to pull back the words on the tip of his tongue—to replace them with others.

“I think we're more of a waltz, Miss Fisher,” he says, looking up, a smile tugging at his lips.

She arches a wry eyebrow. _“_Not a tango?” She says, cautiously optimistic. “A good waltz is slow, and close.” 

“I'll try to stay in step, all the same.”

He holds her gaze and the room comes sharply into focus. The ground is solid under his feet again.

And Phryne is smiling at him.

* * *

“Good Lord, you’re restless tonight!” She complains.

“What?”

“You were thrashing about. Stole the covers right off of me!”

“I’m sorry,“ he says. “I was having the oddest dream.”

“Mmm,” she grunts, sleepily tugging at the covers. He helps settle them over her.

“I was an old man," he continues unbidden, "doddering around my apartment—the one I had when we met—with seemingly nothing to do.”

“Sounds dull.”

“And lonely.”

“Where was I?” She asks, getting to the crux of her meager interest his story.

“I don’t know. There was no sign of you. It was as though I didn’t know you anymore, or maybe I never had.”

“That’s not a dream, darling. That’s a nightmare,” she says, in her usual, self-assured manner.

“Yes,” he agrees with a laugh. He pulls her in, suddenly needing to feel her solidly in his arms.

“Go back to sleep, love,” she sighs.“You’ll have to be on the top of your game tomorrow. I think I’ve got an idea for smoking out our suspect.”

“Will it give me grief?”

“Probably,” she says, settling in against his chest.

“Fair enough.”

Jack smiles, tightens his hold on her, and drifts back into a dreamless sleep.

* * *

I hope you prefer this ending, gentle reader. I know I do. 

I'm sure you've learned by now who your narrator is.

Jack called me a beast.

Others have called me cruel, fickle and vindictive. But also, kind, patient, and worth fighting for. Some even say there is magic in me.

I suppose all of these are true, as is this: 

_I always find a way_


End file.
